


A Friend in Need

by UnscriptedCryptid



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Barry Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, yet another fic where i self indulgently beat up barry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnscriptedCryptid/pseuds/UnscriptedCryptid
Summary: Five times that Barry takes care of himself, and one time that he doesn't have to.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this before i wrote the first fic that i posted on this site, and when i saw the unfinished draft in my files, i figured i might try to scrape together something before christmas  
> happy holidays! sorry for relentlessly posting self indulgent nonsense!

Contrary to popular belief, Barry Allen is actually rather capable of taking care of himself.

Okay. So it isn’t really a mystery where some misconceptions saying otherwise might have come from. After all, Barry has two left feet—both of which are capable of propelling his breakable body forward at over Mach 2—so he is no stranger to accidental bruises and the occasional broken bone. And okay, yeah. Sometimes, in the midst of working at the crime lab and running night patrols in Central City and convening with the newly formed Justice League—which is such a cool name, such a cool team, such a cool everything—Barry will forget to eat for a day (or three) and his body will respond by viciously edging out the corners of his vision until he takes the hint and scarfs down a snack. But ever since Barry was nine years old, he’s had to learn how to fend for himself. And he’s proud to say that his survival rate is currently at 100%, so he’s obviously doing something right.

Don’t get him wrong. It isn’t like all of his foster homes were _bad_ —sure, there were a few where he got slapped around a bit, and he still has a scar on his eyebrow from where one of the older kids once punched him after learning that Barry was pining after another boy at their school—but even at the nicer homes, there was so much going on that Barry always tried to keep the attention away from himself so that his stressed out foster parents could dedicate more time to the _kid_ kids. You know. The one’s that really needed the help. So Barry learned how to hide the small hurts, how to hole himself away when things are getting too intense until he’s able to function like a normal human being again. Or. Well. As normal of a human being as he’s ever been able to pass off as, anyway.

And, as hard as it’s gotten, he’s always managed to succeed. Somehow.

So, yeah. He’s a disaster, but he isn’t a hopeless one. And he needs the League to do a lot of things—to make him feel like he’s a part of something. To make him feel like he actually _belongs_ somewhere for once. To make him feel like he’s not alone in an uncaring, unflinching universe that wants nothing more than to take everything that Barry has ever had away from him—but he doesn’t need them to hold his hand every time that he gets a little roughed up.

(Although sometimes—like right now, for instance—he kind of wants them to.

But that’s selfish. Ridiculous. He isn’t a child.  

And it’s not like any of them would want to stick around for _this_.)

\---

He’s not entirely sure what caused it, but if Barry had to guess, he would say that it was the bomb from earlier today.

It wasn’t a run-of-the-mill, burst-into-flames-and-take-out-two-city-blocks kind of bomb, mind you, but a _special_ bomb. A “nerve agent that not even _you_ can hope to dispose of in time,” the villain-of-the-day had said, while adjusting his villain tie and gesturing at the briefcase with his villain gloves after Clark and Barry had burst through the doors of the bank before the rest of the League had a chance to catch up to them.

And Barry hadn’t believed him at first—because every villain likes to think that they are the Most Cunning Villain to ever face the League, and more often than not, they are wrong—but as Barry sent the man in the black suit and (strangely stylish, if not completely predictable) slouch hat sailing back with a careful push, he caught a glance of Clark grabbing onto the ticking briefcase (likely to send it flying into the stratosphere, because he is capable of doing that sort of thing), and Barry’s confidence faltered as Clark crumpled to the ground upon the first touch. And although Barry was able to frantically grab the case in time to run it into the deepest, most tightly sealed vault in the back of the bank himself, he was unable to escape before the bomb went off right in his face, spraying him with a light green gas that both clued him in on the kryptonite that had incapacitated Clark and made Barry cough so hard that his entire body ached for a good half hour afterwards.

But that had been it. Upon their arrival, the rest of the League had taken out the gunmen threatening to mow down the terrified hostages, the vault had been sealed to prevent the spread of the noxious gas, and after being run through a decontamination chamber, Barry had felt…well. A little off, and more than a little disoriented, but mostly fine.

The chemical analysts told him that it was a mixture of sarin and kryptonite—something potent enough to completely wipe out any normal human being upon exposure and send Superman staggering to the Hall to sleep it off even though he had only felt it through a quarter of an inch of fake leather—but Barry is a meta-human with a metabolism so fast that he has an entire menu dedicated to him at the local subway shop, so the gas only served to make his stomach a bit queasy.

At first, that is.

Because after reassuring the League that he was fine—and apologizing again for ruining an entire vault of cash, which is something that Bruce waved off with the same nonchalance with which he always waves off millions of dollars’ worth of property damage—Barry had retreated back to the safety of his warehouse, where things had...deteriorated, for a lack of better terms.

Because he was okay earlier today. Honestly, he was. But now, Barry kind of feels like he’s dying.

It had come on so suddenly—the stark, searing pain in his abdomen, as though someone had gripped onto his insides and squeezed—and even with his super speed, Barry had just barely gotten to the bathroom in time to throw himself down over the toilet as he began to gag. And Barry doesn’t know how much food is even left in his body at this point, but his stomach continues to roll, set in motion by the steady waves of nausea that won’t seem to abate, so it isn’t long before he’s heaving over the edge of the porcelain bowl for the fifth time in the last forty minutes, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as each lurch makes his head pound in protest.

Once he’s completely certain that he’s done throwing up everything that he has ever eaten (at least, for the time being), Barry pushes away from the toilet and sinks back down onto the floor, where he rests his flushed, sweaty face against the cool concrete. Each breath hitches in his chest, rattles out from between his teeth in the form of a thin wheeze as drool continues to drip from the corners of his mouth. And even though Barry feels like he’s burning alive, his shoulders shake as though he were freezing.

He hasn’t been sick like this since before the accident—since his sophomore year of high school, when he somehow both caught the flu and contracted bronchitis in the same awful, terrible week—and, truthfully, he doesn’t want to be alone when each moment feels like more of a struggle than the last.  

But he can’t go to the League with this. He can’t go to the League with this because they need to take care of Clark, first of all. And, second of all, Barry really, really doesn’t want them to see him in this condition.

They can’t see him like this. They wouldn’t _want_ to see him like this. They wouldn’t want to take care of some stupid kid that couldn’t even complete a mission without messing it all up, especially given the fact that he isn’t in any mortal danger—wouldn’t want to watch him gag and sweat and whine between clenched teeth. And, even worse than that, having them here would be a waste of their time—a selfish waste of their time that Barry is ashamed for even thinking about asking for.

Barry can take care of it himself, he thinks, even as his vision blurs. He has always taken care of himself before, and he can most certainly continue to take care of himself _now._

(But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t _want_ to. He’s scared and he’s in pain and he misses his mom and, before he can stop himself, he’s crying, sobbing in between each wet cough and involuntary shiver.)

Barry’s phone chirps somewhere in the middle of his breakdown—lets out a short, 8-bit sound clip from some Daft Punk song that indicates that Victor has just sent a text—but by the time that Barry’s sobbing has tapered off into irregular sniffles, he’s so exhausted that the very thought of dragging himself out of the bathroom and over to his dresser to check what has been said makes his body screech it’s protest. And, on the off-chance that he could even make it over to the dresser without keeling over and passing out like his body evidently wants him to—an outcome that he will fully admit is statistically unlikely—Barry doesn’t know if he has the willpower to respond to a text from one of his teammates without breaking down and begging them to come over so that, at least when Barry succumbs to his eventual heat-death, he’ll do so with company.

So instead, Barry just elects to ignore the text entirely, gripping onto the sink and dragging himself onto unsteady feet so that he can splash water on his face and take a few sips that he prays will stay down before stumbling over to the bathtub and crawling into it to settle in for the night.

(He’s capable of taking care of himself, after all, but he never claimed to be _great_ at it. And his mattress is so far away.)

He wakes up a few hours later to throw up one last time, but after that, he sleeps until morning and awakens for work feeling perfectly normal, save for the stiffness in his neck and back that stand as the only reminders for how terrible the day previous had gone.

And when he checks his phone, he finds an unopened, unanswered text from Victor:

_Hey, man. You doing okay? You kind of darted right after the mission._

Barry responds with _sorry vic. i fell asleep before i could check your text. but i’m doing great_. With a peace sign, for good measure.

(Technically, it isn’t a lie.)  

 


	2. Barry in the Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry really should have thought this one through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me like five tries to figure out how to start and end this chapter and i still hate it but it is DONE and there's no goin back now

Barry Allen has always been the smallest bit anxious by nature. (The tiniest bit. Like. The most  _infinitesimal_ bit that you could ever imagine.) 

He doesn’t know what caused it, but it’s been that way for as long as he can remember.

When he was a kid, for example, he would focus on building elaborate cities out of blocks while other kindergarteners were learning how to socialize and make friends, too intimidated by the loud chatter and sticky fingers of his peers to properly speak to any of them. And after his mother died, there were the therapy sessions and the nightmares and the panic attacks that never completely went away, even as he grew older and learned how to hide behind bad jokes and a big smile.

Then, the accident happened, and—well.

(As it turns out, getting struck by lightning was not the answer to his problems.)

It’s just. It’s like Barry can see everything happening in slow motion now—can see every detail of every moment of every single day. And although this ability can be helpful, sometimes, when Barry needs to ground himself in a world that is otherwise too fast or chaotic, it can also make certain situations feel a bit—Barry doesn’t want to say _overwhelming,_ but…

It can make certain situations a lot to deal with, is all.

But Barry knows how to manage it—knows what signs to look out for, what needs to be done when the threshold of what he can handle has been surpassed—so it’s fine.

Really. It’s fine.

 

(That’s what Barry keeps telling himself, anyway.

But then he gets himself into situations like _this_.)

\---

There’s a party at Wayne Manor, and the League is invited.

Well. Not the “League”—not Aquaman or Wonder Woman, Cyborg or Superman—but the _league_ : Arthur, Diana, Victor, Clark. Even Barry.

According to Bruce, a major business partner of his is turning seventy-five this Saturday. So, in a show of good faith, Bruce is hosting a party—in part to get the press off his back after some ambitious reporter published photos of Superman stopping by the Manor in the dead of night (springing forth some rather  _intriguing_ articles about the nature of his relationship with Bruce Wayne), and in part to genuinely thank this “Mr. Fox” for standing by his side during his formative years.

And when Barry cracks an ill-advised joke about whether or not Bruce will be inviting Superman to this party—to. You know. Help clarify some recent speculations—Bruce’s face does that thing where it goes all stony and unamused in a way that makes Barry feel like he’s about to be murdered by the Batman before the expression unexpectedly shifts into something more thoughtful.

“No,” Bruce says. “But I will be inviting Clark Kent. I think it’s time I had an interview with the _Daily Planet._ ”

And so it’s settled.

Bruce and Clark hash out the details: a team of _Daily Planet_ reporters will be permitted access to the party, but Bruce will only speak to Clark or Lois. He invites Diana, too, to "help things run more smoothly"—although she has to gracefully decline due to some prior obligations with her sisters at Themyscira—and because Bruce isn’t completely heartless (as much as he would like for everyone to think otherwise), he tells Victor, Arthur, and Barry that they’re free to come as well, provided they can behave themselves.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest. But Bruce just gives him a deadpan look in response.

“You should be receiving a suit to wear to the party by Friday,” Bruce replies. Then, “should I just throw yours directly in the ocean, or should I give it to the first dolphin I see on the bay?”

Needless to say, Arthur tells Bruce that he can blow both the suit and the invitation out of his ass before stomping off, presumably to break some of Bruce’s furniture and snag some whiskey out of his cabinet before retreating back to the sea.

“I think I’m going to pass as well,” Victor says, much more diplomatically. He raises his hands in front of himself, twisting his wrists so that the metal catches in the light. “I’m not exactly keen on trying to hide my identity for so long in a single location.”

Bruce nods his assent, and before Barry has a chance to collect himself, an even stare is being leveled his way.

“I’m keen!” Barry blurts out, momentarily faltering in mortification before he’s talking again. “I mean—yeah. Absolutely. Count me in. I can behave myself. King of behaving themselves, right here. Scout’s honor. I mean, I wasn’t a boy scout, but…”

Barry cuts himself off, grinning at Bruce with an edge of thinly veiled excitement that he hopes isn’t coming across as too desperate.

“I won’t embarrass you, Bruce. I promise.”

And Barry wouldn’t hold it against Bruce if he redacted the invitation, but he doesn’t do that. Instead, he just stares straight through Barry, as though assessing whether or not it will be worth it to deal with a secondary press fall out when Barry inevitably embarrasses him anyway. Then, with a weary sigh, Bruce nods his head.

“Party’s at 6 PM. If you're going to show up more than fifteen minutes late, don't show up at all. Understand?”

And Barry lets out an emphatic “yep,” bites his lip so hard that it stings because this is basically a dream come true. He’s going to a party hosted by _the Batman_.

 

(It doesn't occur to him yet that this is doomed to end up in disaster. 

But, then again, when has Barry ever properly thought things through?)

\---

The party is extravagant and intimidating, in the way that most things involving Bruce are, and it takes less than fifteen minutes upon entering (only twelve minutes late) for Barry to begin wondering if he’s bitten off more than he can chew.

Because, the thing is, Barry has been to parties before—he didn’t really have friends in college, but he was a part of the Sun City Symphony Orchestra, and they knew how to throw a good rager—but he’s never been to one quite like _this._

The ballroom is cluttered and almost chaotic, albeit in a sophisticated fashion that clearly displays how much money went into planning such an event. Round tables line the walls, arranged so that there is a wide space in-between them where wealthy couples are already beginning to dance to a live orchestra at the back of the room. Near the front entrance, there is a large table, at the center of which stands an ice sculpture, and above it all hangs a series of crystal chandeliers, a single one of which likely cost more than what Barry makes in an entire year.

However, what strikes Barry the hardest is the sheer magnitude of guests:

There are about a thousand people here. And Barry knows approximately none of them.

\---

Barry can feel the unease creeping into his stomach, drowning out the raw excitement that had been there minutes before, but it’s easy enough to distract himself at first. He just focuses on the list of _don’ts_ that Bruce gave him prior to the celebration: don’t point out when two women are wearing the same dress, don’t tell anybody that story about the time he powerslid down the aisle at Walgreens and took out an entire shelf, don’t start a discussion that he does not know how to finish.

And for a while, it works. Barry flits from conversation to conversation, only hanging around long enough to listen to a story or two without having to share any of his own, and when he finds a small group having a chat about the music, he’s even able to contribute (because he is well versed in Strauss; he played first chair viola his second year of college.) But when the charming older lady at the head of the herd—Evelyn, Barry thinks—gives him the once over, perfectly manicured brow raised in curiosity, Barry can feel the nerves come back full force.

“How do you know Mr. Wayne, again? You’re a bit young for his normal crowd.”

“I’m interning for his, uh, chemical and pharmaceuticals branch,” Barry chokes out. Then, because he’s always been a terrible liar, he tacks on a truth to support it. “I majored in organic chemistry at Sun City University.”

“A scientist _and_ a connoisseur of the fine arts,” Evelyn laughs. She runs a hand down Barry’s arm, and Barry does his best not to flinch as she moves her face uncomfortably close to his own (because he can smell her perfume, and it’s overbearing, and although her fingers rest lightly on his wrist, it’s like he can feel every cell shifting under her touch.) “I should introduce you to my daughter. Although,” her voice drops down low as she leans over to speak directly into his ear, “I’ve never been one to share.”

“Champagne!” Barry says suddenly, and he tries not to look too relieved as Evelyn startles away from him at the word. “I mean. I’m going to go get some—some champagne. Yeah. Do you want any? Any of you? Because I’m—I’m going. Now. This moment. To the champagne table.”

“Relax, dear. I was only teasing,” Evelyn tries, tone placating, but Barry can feel the judgement coming from a mile away, so he takes a few steps back from the group regardless.

“Sorry. I’m going to just. Yeah.”

He flees, staggering through another cluster of people in the process, and he doesn’t look back. Still, the smell of Evelyn’s perfume lingers.

 

(This is the first sign that Barry should leave. But he doesn’t want to cause a scene—doesn’t want to have to explain to Bruce why he bailed an hour into the party that he practically begged to come to—so he stays, even as his heart begins to beat faster in his chest and his palms inexplicably start to sweat.

In retrospect, that was a stupid decision. But that’s not really all that surprising, is it? Barry’s always been kind of stupid.)

\---

Barry tries to avoid talking to anyone from that point on, but the restlessness doesn’t abate.

This is something that he recognizes from college, actually: this desire to shed his own skin and hide out for a while, to walk into a dark room and just focus on breathing until everything stops feeling so overwhelming. But, while he might been able to duck away and catch a breath at Sun City University, where a party consisted of forty to fifty people whose sole objective for the evening was to get so inebriated that they wouldn’t remember it the next day, he isn’t sure if he’ll be able to do that _here_ , where each person he sees is more well-known and accomplished than the last.

And Barry knows what’s happening. It’s happened before, after all. Everything feels _off_ , in a way. It’s like—it’s like the music’s too loud, or the walls are somehow closing in, shrinking the dance floor until everyone is _too close, too close, too close_ to Barry for comfort. And he should leave, but he asked to come here, and he said that he would behave himself, so even as the sounds start to blur into a droning that makes his head ache, Barry doesn’t try to escape.

Clark gives him the chance—pulls him to the side at one point, tight smile doing nothing to hide the concern in his eyes.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks. He places his hands on Barry’s shoulders, and although Barry would normally be grateful for the grounding touch, right now it’s just making his skin burn through his suit.

 _No_. He wants to say. And _I need to get out of here._

But that would be stupid. That would be stupid, because Barry knows how to handle this. He’s always handled it before, and he isn’t going to inconvenience his teammates with it now.

So “Yeah,” he says instead. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Enjoying myself, that is. It’s-the party’s great. I’m doing great.”

It’s a lie, and a bad one at that. But Barry steels himself the best that he can, and when he continues, staring Clark in the eyes with a conviction that is only half-falsified, his voice is steady.

“Clark,” Barry says. “I’m fine. Really. Go get your interview with Bruce—uh—with _Mr. Wayne,_ and I’ll. I’ll just hang. I’ll be okay, honest. I’m just…not used to this much _human interaction._ ”

(That isn’t it. Not really. But it’s close enough. And, more importantly, it does the trick.)

“...Okay,” Clark concedes, reluctant. He releases Barry’s shoulders, and Barry’s a bit guilty to find that the relief is immediate. “If you need me, just call. I’ll be able to hear you. Alright?”

“Alright,” Barry agrees. “I promise.”

Another lie. But at least this one is easier to tell than the last.

\---

Things only get worse, despite Barry’s best efforts.

He tries to enjoy himself. Honestly, he does. He finds a spot near the wall where no one will bother him, grabs a glass of the sweetest-looking beverage he can find at the bar and tries to let himself drown in the music as the orchestra plays another waltz that he recognizes from his days in the band.

But the noise of the party feels like it’s coming at him from all directions, flooding out his senses, and when he takes a sip of his drink, he can’t taste anything at all, and the collar of the suit is too tight against his neck, strangling him until he _can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe—_

And he tries to enjoy himself. _Honestly,_ he does.

But it doesn’t work. It never works.

(He can handle this. He can handle this. He can—)

\---

Barry doesn’t remember walking to the bathroom, but that’s where he ends up, propped against the wall near the locked door as he struggles to breathe.

His heart is pounding in his ears now, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t make the tremor in his hands go away. He slowly slides down the wall until he is seated, tugs at his tie and top buttons of his dress shirt with trembling fingers as his skin threatens to melt under the sudden heat in the room.

And Barry wants to cry out for help—wants to cry out for Clark, Bruce, Alfred, anyone so that they can _fix this_ —but he can’t do that to them. He can’t interrupt their plan with whatever this is supposed to be; can’t ruin the party by making it all about his messed up brain.

So he doesn’t call for anyone at all.

Instead, Barry slumps against the ground, swallowing back a mouthful of bile before biting down on his knuckles hard enough to make them bleed (because he can’t let anyone hear him breaking down either, can’t do that to Bruce, and if Barry doesn’t distract himself with something, he’s going to burst out into tears right here right on Bruce’s bathroom floor, going to sob so hard that his throat and chest will ache for hours.)

And Barry’s so scared, he’s so scared, he’s so—

\---

\---

“How did you enjoy the party?” Clark asks him, hours after the last non-League member has left the Manor.

Barry unconsciously pulls his hands closer into himself in response, although he knows that the bruises and bite marks have long since faded.

(He didn’t leave the bathroom for twenty minutes—until his eyes were dry and he was able to smile without looking like he was actively turning into the Joker. And he was so tired—still is, actually, and kind of raw, in a painful sort of way _—_ but at least he can breathe normally again.)

“I had fun,” Barry says. Then, as an afterthought: “Got hit on by a lot of old women.”

And Clark gives him one long, appraising look, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Well,” Bruce interjects, leaning back in his chair with a grumble, “that makes one of us.”

“For the _fun_ part, or for the getting hit on by old women…?”

“Barry.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“You got it, Bruce." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this just in: i am a weakling, and i hate writing barry hurt without any comfort, so i literally wrote half of the final chapter before i could even start on this one (lmao RIP)
> 
> ALSO it feels so unresolved, but i guess that's what i get for deciding to just...let Barry hurt alone for five chapters. sorry :/


	3. Pyrrhic Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry's powers are awesome. And terrible.  
> (It's not as bad as you think. Trust him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. i'm back on my bullshit.  
> (please enjoy my nonsensical rambling)

All things considered, Barry Allen would say that he loves his superpowers.

He can run fast. Faster, he would wager, than any other human being on earth. He can run fast, and he can phase through walls, and he can – he can generate his own electricity, which is kind of awesome when you’re a broke, twenty-something college graduate living out of an abandoned warehouse.

And yeah. The way Barry got his powers? It kind of sucked. But, like. Only for a moment. It wasn’t—it wasn’t traumatic, or anything. 

Well, it was a little traumatic. But it was only traumatic in the way that near death experiences are supposed to be, you know? It wasn’t—it wasn’t like how _Victor_ got his superpowers. It wasn’t a deliberate process, exacted by someone that Barry was supposed to trust. It wasn’t like that.

It was—alright, sure, it was painful. Stupid painful. And it was – it was kind of terrifying, because, like. There was a flash, and agony, and Barry could taste the ozone in the air, could smell his own skin burning, which he wasn’t a fan of, really. But it isn’t like it haunts him. Isn’t like it hinders him in any way now.

Well, okay, sure. Barry has panic attacks, sometimes, during bad storms. But that’s – that doesn’t mean anything. Barry has had a panic attack over a roll of paper towels before. So this is nothing. Less than nothing, actually.

The way he got his superpowers: it was an accident. A really bad, really painful accident. And Barry doesn’t like to think about it. But it wasn’t traumatic _._ And his superpowers themselves –

They’re cool. They’re _useful_.

He has no reason to resent them. So he doesn’t. Resent them, that is. Because he doesn’t have to ride the bus anymore, and he can travel the world in the blink of an eye _,_ and he’s still late to stuff all the time, but he hasn’t been late to his father’s visitation hours even once _._ Not since the accident.

Barry didn’t realize how badly he needed these powers until he got them. And now that he has them, he would say that, overall, they’ve been great.

But sometimes. Just. Sometimes.

Sometimes his powers can be… inconvenient.

(Today's kind of been a prime example of that.)

* * *

It starts – as most of Barry's most stressful problems do – with a mission.

There were bad guys, and they had guns, which Barry acknowledges is probably a given at this point. Honestly, if there’s a handbook for how to be a Bond Era Supervillain—and Barry is willing to bet that there is, because his life would be too easy if there weren’t—Barry is pretty sure that the first directive would be “Own a Large Arsenal of Guns,” with the charming caveat of “and point these guns at your local nemeses whenever physically possible.” The second chapter would be about. Uh. Barry doesn’t know. Long monologues, maybe. Or fashionable hats.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter. That isn’t what this is about.

Bad guys. Guns. One of the Worst Experiences of Barry Allen’s Life.

Right.

There were bad guys, and they had guns, which wasn’t ideal from the get-go. But the weird thing is that Barry was oddly at peace with the situation.

In the past, he wouldn’t have been. Past Barry Allen would have been quite chafed, actually, by the idea of guns being pointed his way. But Present Barry Allen has come to learn that guns are kind of a staple in superhero culture. He’s learned to deal. Adapt. Overcome.

So there were bad guys, and they had guns, and it wasn’t as bad as you’d think. The League had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, each team member playing their part with a casualty that had taken months to perfect. The Batman and Superman were at the front lines, tracking down the Big Bad with their years of experience and sharply honed instincts. Aquaman and the Cyborg were – somewhere – slamming some skulls, no doubt, and looking unfairly cool doing it. Barry was doing his best to sidestep the bullets, throwing an errant punch whenever he could and paying careful mind not to accidentally shatter a rib cage or two. And Wonder Woman was there beside him, watching Barry’s back and effortlessly knocking out the opposition, all sharp lines and flashing fisticuffs.

It was the smell of gunpowder, the rush of adrenaline, the taste of iron in the air. It was – a lot, honestly. But it was normal. It was fine.  

And then it wasn’t.

Because, you see, this particular brand of bad guys were a bit more nuanced than your average, gun-blazing, war-mongering types. They had guns, yes, but they also had a strategy. A plan. An ace up their sleeves.

Or, at the very least, they had luck.

Something rolled across the floor. Landed right by Wonder Woman’s feet, bouncing to a stop less than a yard away. Barry turned to see what it was – figured it was a standard grenade, because that’s the kind of week he’s been having – but the black cylinder took him by surprise. Made him falter, feet skidding across the ground in an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation as he tried to figure out what he was looking at.

Then, a sequence of events: Barry realized what the cylinder was. Opened his mouth to warn Wonder Woman. Lunged forward, desperate and reckless and wired.

And the world went up in flames.

Really, though, it should have been fine. That should have been the end of it. The flash bomb went off, and it was burning-searing-terror. Barry’s entire skull vibrated, ringing in his ears, vision blotted out with bright smears of light and chaos. A sharp pain lit up along his left side, and Barry could feel the scream rip through his throat before he could hear it. But the agony passed, and it was over, and Barry rolled onto his back, trying his best not to retch as blood pooled behind his teeth. He succeeded, even, swallowing back iron and bile as he turned to Wonder Woman, complaint resting on the tip of his tongue – because what the hell? He isn’t paid enough for this. He isn’t really even paid at all. He hopes his superhero job covers health insurance.

But Wonder Woman. _Diana._

Barry was okay. Sort of. A little burned, and in no small amount of pain, but okay. Diana, though. Diana wasn’t okay at all.

Barry knew what was happening, which was probably a blessing, but felt a lot like a curse. Diana had taken a knee in the offset of the blast. Her eyes were wide, dazed, distant. She was shaking, too, right hand crossed over her stomach, left hand fisted in the grass as her chest hitched with each short, staggered breath. Barry would have worried that she was physically injured if he didn’t know any better. But he knew better. Of course he knew better.

(He’s kind of the king of panic attacks. He knows how to spot one.)

And he didn’t know how to help her, which is the kicker. The real ordeal. Because Barry – he’s dealt with so many panic attacks before. His own. His foster siblings’. One of his coworker’s, once. He _knows_ how to handle a panic attack. He should have been able to help her.

But there were bad guys, and guns, and when Barry took a moment to try and reach out to Diana, a bullet skimmed past his shoulder, turning his soft words into a startled cry of pain.

 _“_ League _,_ ” he gasped out into his comm, hand instinctively squeezing down on the shallow wound even as his powers worked to close it. “Wonder Woman’s down. We need – _oh, God._ Someone cover us! I can’t – I can’t move her like this.”

And he isn’t 100% sure what came next. His memory’s kind of faded. Subdued, blurring into static like an old VHS that someone would find in their attic. He remembers turning to face the villains, lightning gathering at his fingertips as his instincts compelled him to fight. He remembers Diana sobbing, each harsh inhale thrumming against his own ribcage, making something cruel and unforgiving and cold well up in his chest. He remembers being frightened, terrified, because he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do. _He_ _doesn’t know what to do._

He remembers Superman. It is, arguably, the only thing he remembers. In HD quality, even, although he’d honestly rather forget. He’d rather forget, because – because while Clark flew in like an avenging angel, Diana screamed, the sound visceral and piercing and so, so heartbroken that Barry was effectively stunned. Diana screamed, and she raged, and it was fucking terrible, because Barry was useless. He was useless, because he wanted to comfort Diana. He wanted to tell her that everything was alright. He wanted to help her. He wanted, he wanted, he _wanted,_ and it didn’t matter, because he was trying to bat away bullets, and Diana was crying, and her voice keeps resonating in his ears although he knows that there was nothing more that he could have done. He knows that he needed to keep her safe.

(And he did it. He kept her safe. But her voice. God, her voice.)

“Steve,” Diana choked out, desperate and hopeless and too much. Everything was too much. “Please. _Please._ You have to help him.”

“I’m sorry,” Barry replied. And he was, and he is, and he will be for a while. “I’m so sorry.”

His side hurt. He could taste iron. He felt like he was drowning.

“Flash, are you alright?” Clark asked, muted and muffled and far away. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but the guns had ceased firing. Barry let his arms drop to his sides, suddenly exhausted. When he let go of his clenched fist, a handful of bullets dropped to the floor.

“Help Wonder Woman,” he had replied, voice flat. Detached from the rest of him. “Help her. Please.”

God knows Barry never could.

\---

They end up back at Wayne Manor.

Barry doesn’t remember how he got there. He remembers the battlefield – the disconnected sense of terror as the bullets tore past him, the sharp edge of adrenaline as he fought them off, the heavy weight of relief when Clark finally intervened– but he cannot for the life of him remember how he moved one foot in front of another to end up at Bruce’s mansion. It’s probably for the best, but it’s unsettling, you know? It’s weird to just lose a half an hour of his life. But it’s not like Barry’s never done it before, and it’s not like Barry’s feelings matter right now. Diana is kind of the priority, as she should be. Diana is the priority, and when they arrive back at the manor, she is carted away by Bruce and Clark and Alfred, and Victor places a hand on Barry’s shoulder even though Barry’s fine.

“Are you okay?” Victor asks. A stupid question, because it doesn’t matter either way.

“Perfect,” Barry answers regardless, and Victor scowls and shared a look with Arthur, but neither of them press any further. Because Barry’s alright. At least, kind of. He’s shaken, and he’s worried, and he’s a little woozy, but he’s fine. He’s okay.

At least, he is for the time being. But that’s another matter entirely.

\---

So. The thing about Barry’s powers.

When most people get blasted by a grenade, they tend to die due to blood loss. It’s a brutal process, really. They just bleed, and bleed, and they keep bleeding until it becomes a crisis. Eventually, they lose so much blood that their body runs out of oxygen. Their muscles and organs shut down, one at a time, until their heart just. Stops. Quits functioning. The end.

Barry doesn’t have that problem.

Barry’s cells regenerate at an incredible rate. For instance, a paper cut would normally take two to three days to heal completely. Barry’s paper cuts heal within fifteen seconds. That sort of thing. So when the flash bomb went off – it sucked. It was loud, and it was jarring, and it hurt a lot more than it had any right to. But his powers healed everything within ten minutes. Kept him from falling apart. However, there’s a catch.

You see, Barry heals fast, but it’s not a perfect system. His skin just closes up. Melds together wherever it can in a frantic attempt to keep him breathing. And usually, it’s great. Usually, it keeps him alive.

But sometimes, there are… complications.

\---

He’s in one of the bathrooms at Wayne Manor when he makes the realization.

He tries to see Diana first, honest. He walks up to the room and knocks on the door and everything. But when Bruce pokes his head out to see a disheveled Flash in his wake, he quirks a rather unimpressed eyebrow and says “Go clean up. We can handle this for now,” before effectively locking Barry out. And Barry wants to be indignant, but he’s too tired for that. So instead, he just. Complies. Plays along. Drags himself to the bathroom where he keeps a spare change of clothes stashed away in one of the lower cupboards and begins to undress.

He pulls at the wires of his suit, unwinds the intricate design around his torso, tugs off the chest plate with a rough jerk. Then, he sucks in a harsh breath of air between clenched teeth as an imminent problem makes itself known.

There had been shrapnel in that grenade. It was a flash-bang, so there shouldn’t have been, but there was. And it’s now embedded in Barry’s torso, trapped by a layer of skin that has healed around it.

“Oh, this is going to suck,” Barry mutters, shoulders trembling with his shaky exhale. But he steels his nerves. Sets his jaw and swallows before making a mad dash around the mansion to collect the things that he’ll need.

“This is going to _suck_ ,” he repeats, softer this time, as he sets the materials on the bathroom counter.

But this whole day has kind of sucked anyway, so. What’s one more inconvenience, really?

\---

For a moment, Barry hesitates.

He’s got an X-Acto knife clenched in his right hand, a zippo lighter held loosely in his left. He’s removed as much of the clothing from his torso as he can, cutting around the areas where his under-suit has completely fused with his skin. He has a bottle of hydrogen peroxide waiting on the counter, a package of gauze to go with it, and the water from the shower running so that any terrible sounds Barry lets out will be hidden from Clark’s unfairly fine-tuned sense of hearing. By all accounts, he should be ready to do this. He’s done it plenty of times before.

But as he flicks the zippo lighter to life and stares at the gentle orange flame, Barry _hesitates._

It’s stupid, really. Because Barry’s no stranger to some emergency self-surgery. He’s got a pretty big track record of being a clumsy idiot, actually, and one of the things that he learned early on is that he can’t exactly rely on anyone else to help him if he wants to keep his whole “secret-superhero” thing under wraps. There’s no easy way, after all, to explain why a blast wound that would have mortally wounded a normal person has healed over in the span of two hours, nor is there an easy way to explain how he, a skinny kid with virtually no muscle mass to speak of, can be blasted with anesthesia without growing the least bit tired. So, in the past, Barry didn’t have many options. He just had to grit his teeth and slice into his own skin and get it over with.

But, now. The team – they _know._ They know that Barry is the Flash, and they know that he has superpowers, and looking at the fire, Barry doesn’t want to – he doesn’t want –

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to go through this alone.

And he could call for help. He could call, and whether or not his teammates like him, they would respond _,_ because they’re good people. Someone would come to his aid, and Barry wouldn’t have to be alone anymore. But it’s stupid _,_ and it’s childish, and it’s selfish, because Diana needs them right now – needs _him_ right now, maybe – and even if someone came, what good would it do? They can’t take his pain away, and they can’t magically evaporate the shrapnel digging into his side either. And although Barry doesn’t want to be alone, he also doesn’t want his teammates to see him break. Doesn’t want to let them see how weak he really is.

So Barry shakes his head. Sticks the knife into the flame and fights back a shudder as he prepares himself for the next step. Then, before he can think about it any further, he wedges the blade beneath the first piece of shrapnel and he rips it out with a wet pop.

(He nearly bites through his own tongue muffling his scream. But his powers will heal that, too.)

 (They're probably a net positive, after all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i disappeared for so long, and also sorry that this is a disjointed and unedited mess (insert peace sign here)


	4. A Fever You Can't Sweat Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry never knows when to shut his mouth.  
> (He doesn't know when he should most definitely open it, either.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, yes, i, uh. don't know how to write like a comprehensible person anymore.  
> happy new year tho

Barry Allen, despite what evidence may suggest, knows that he can come across as a bit much.

It’s just – listen. Barry’s got a lot of thoughts going on in his head. Like a constant stream of consciousness, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The world literally moves in slow motion for him, so he’s got plenty of time to think, and it makes for an interesting inner monologue, to say in the least. So sometimes – okay, a lot of the time – Barry feels compelled to blurt out whatever obscure, asinine garbage that has managed to cram its way into his psyche. Anything to lessen the thought-pressure in his skull. And, as a result, there are two character traits that Barry has become infamous for:

1\. He has an opinion on virtually any given topic:

Toilet paper. Bagels. Brunch. (Oh, my God. Don’t get him started on brunch.)

And

2\. He loves to share these opinions. All the time. Without being prompted.

Which is – yeah. Alright. Fair.

Barry wouldn’t say that he “loves” to talk, but he _does_ have a pretty heavy amount of commentary at any given moment. And it’s fine. The team has, for the most part, come to accept that Barry is a perpetual motor mouth, and in return, Barry has come to accept that he will receive a well-earned roasting every once in a while. It’s a comfortable symbiosis, usually.

But what the team doesn’t know is that Barry actually has some semblance of decorum. Or common sense, maybe. Which is to say that he knows that there is a time and a place for his – well, in Arthur’s words, “bitching” – and there are likewise times and-or-places where it is in everyone’s best interest if he shuts his mouth and deals with whatever mumbo-jumbo is going on in his head on his own. And, what’s more than that, he typically knows how far he can push his whining before he runs the risk of shattering the delicate patience that his teammates has for his antics.

Although Barry only supposes it was a matter of time until he pushed things too far.

 

(Today, Barry makes a mistake.)

(Really, though. What else is new?)

\---

So the mission is supposed to be – well, Barry doesn’t want to say “easy,” because that’s a cliché – but yeah. Easy. There really isn’t any better word for it.

To be fair, the entire operation has been a cliché from the get-go: Ostentatiously Wealthy Science Man is coming to town with a novel science weapon capable of bringing world peace or world domination, if it lands in the wrong hands. In this case, the wrong hands happen to belong to some underground crime syndicate that Bruce has been tailing for the better part of five years, because the Batman has never known how to relax for even a single day of his Batlife. Classic stuff.

Oh, but the drama doesn’t stop there.

You see, the thing about Ostentatiously Wealthy Science People is that they tend to be what the scientific community as a whole refers to as “massive show offs.” They aren’t after funding so much as they are after attention and praise. Notoriety serves as the litmus test for whether or not their scientific breakthroughs are considered worthwhile; as a result, the original intent of science itself – to expand the horizon of human understanding and to lead to the betterment of lives – is lost more often than not.

Perhaps that is why this particular Science Man, “Dr. Michael Varnerin, MD-PhD,” has decided to show off his impressive science weapon at the very public, very well televised convention at Gotham Harbor. Because, of course, his scientific contributions would be wasted if he weren’t toting them about the literal epicenter of criminal activity. So what if it puts a few million lives at stake? Dr. Michael Varnerin, MD-PhD has a reputation to uphold.

Woops. Was that bitter? Barry doesn’t mean to sound bitter.

(But honestly.)

In summation: there is important, dangerous tech being publically and unnecessarily displayed at the Ground Zero for Crime, and there are many, dangerous people who want nothing more than to snatch it up and exploit it for their own evil agendas. Enter the Justice League. Or. Half of the Justice League.

Because this _is_ a convention for Ostentatiously Wealthy People, Bruce has been forced to forego his batsona and attend Dr. Michael Varnerin, MD-PhD’s murder panel as “Bruce Wayne, eccentric billionaire.” And because the particular Science Weapon that Dr. Michael Varnerin, MD-PhD has created involves a rather sophisticated system of electricity and magnetism, Victor has been instructed to stay away from the convention at all costs, lest his own tech react negatively with the invention being presented.

Turns out, Electronic Weapons of Mass Destruction are a contraindication for the Cyborg.

Superman’s gone, too, albeit for less strategic reasons. Barry didn’t catch the entirety of Bruce’s explanation, but from what he gathered, Clark’s been roped into some major family event by the Lanes. In any case, Bruce is confident that three members of the League should be enough to deal with this specific mission, and Barry’s honestly inclined to agree.

It isn’t like he’s particularly good at this superhero thing yet. Far from it, really. But the instructions are straightforward on this one: Wonder Woman’s going to stand guard at the panel, Aquaman’s going to patrol the outskirts of the harbor, and the Flash is going to patrol the inner workings. Look out for any suspicious behavior. Subdue anyone that tries any funny business. Like a policeman, kind of, but with fewer guns and infinitely less authority. It’s just like the internship he has at the CCPD.

It’s simple, and it’s easy, and it’s exactly what Barry needs right now, because he’s. Umm. He’s not doing so hot.

Or, to be more accurate, he’s doing very hot. Too hot, actually, in an uncomfortable, dangerous sort of way.

Alright. Okay. Rationally speaking, he’s being overdramatic. It’s just…                              

So some days, Barry wakes up feeling kind of “ugh,” you know? Limbs heavy, chest aching, skin burning. Like having the flu, but amplified. He’s got a working theory about the mechanism behind it – might be the energy output from his rapid cell regeneration creating a super heating effect or something, the theory’s a work in progress – but the fact of the matter is that he feels, in simple terms, bad. Downright horrible, on some occasions. And today is one of those occasions.

Barry woke up – at 4:30? Maybe 4. Doesn’t remember – and his first thought was that he was on fire. Mouth dry, head pounding, blood boiling in his veins. If you told him that all of the water in his body had been replaced with lava, he wouldn’t doubt it. That kind of thing. But when Bruce sent out the signal calling for the League, Barry responded, because that’s what he _does._ He hasn’t taken a sick day since the first grade, and he isn’t about to do it now.

Besides. He was fine. A little dizzy, and very hot, but fine.

Now, though. Now, he’s, uh. He’s a little less fine.

It’s just. _Listen._

Barry was okay when Bruce gathered the League to tell them the plan, and he was okay walking around for the first few hours of the convention. He spaced out a few times, and he might have honest-to-God dissociated there for a hot second, but he was mostly present and mostly on top of it. But it’s about noon now, the sun’s bearing down directly on him, and Barry doesn’t feel, umm, right? He feels quite wrong, actually.

His heart is beating way too fast. He can hear it in his ears, a steady staccato against his rising sense of unease. He can hear it, and he can feel it, and he should probably say something about it, but it can’t be that big of a deal, can it? He’s dealt with worse.

Besides, here’s the good news: if Barry distracts himself – if he talks loudly enough to drown out the pounding in his skull – he doesn’t even notice it anymore. And man, does he have a lot to talk about.

He’s been chatting, off and on, for roughly forty minutes now. Standard stuff. It’s nearly one hundred degrees outside, and because it rained in Gotham yesterday – it’s always raining in Gotham, why is it always so dark in Gotham? – the relative humidity rests at an uncomfortably sticky 87%. Speaking of, Barry’s hair is going to be absolutely monstrous when all of this is said and done—think: puddle of oil on Texas sidewalk meets Bog Monster of Louisiana—and if Batman makes even one comment about it, Barry is going to throw himself into the ocean. Actually, no, never mind, because he read this article about some frankly terrifying bioluminescent creatures in the abyssalpelagic zone the other day, so he’ll be avoiding the water forever now, thanks.

 _“Flash, please_.”

And oh. Oh, right.

Here’s the bad news: Barry’s only talking to himself. Honestly, he is. But Bruce has the team on some experimental, open, two-way communication system right now – he mentioned something about the inconvenience of having to press down the comm button when being actively shot at? – so whatever Barry says, Diana and Arthur overhear. And there’s nothing that any of them can do about it.

“Sorry,” Barry squeaks. “I’ll, um. I’ll try to stop.”

Key word here being “try.”

Because Barry doesn’t want to be an inconvenience, and he doesn’t want to be annoying. But when it gets too quiet, his thoughts get so loud. And they’re all screaming his discomfort, blaring “Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!” across his subconscious like some sort of neon warning sign, which is stupid and frustrating and unfair, because he’s fine. He’s _fine._

And the mission is so simple. So easy. He can multitask. He’s never been confident before in his life, but he’s confident about this.

"Oh, _wow,_ that guy's sunburned. Heh. The _one_ day that it’s sunny in Gotham–”

 _"Flash!_ ”

“Sorry! Sorry, I. I’ll stop, I’m stopping.”

(Barry makes it five minutes.)

(To be fair, that’s four more than anyone should have expected.)

\---

Barry doesn’t know where the tipping point lies – maybe somewhere between humming the entirety of the newest BLACKPINK EP and the observation of how much Batman memorabilia they sell at the local harbor shops – but at one point, something just. Snaps. Bends until it breaks.

Or, at the very least, Arthur does.

 _“For God’s_ sake, _Kid. Do you ever stop talking?"_

He cuts Barry off mid-sentence, voice gruff and frustrated and exhausted in a way that makes the rest of the words catch in Barry’s throat. Because Barry has heard anger from Arthur tons of times. More times than he cares to count, really. But he’s never heard Arthur sound so resigned.

(Barry’s pushed it too far. He always pushes it too far, though, doesn’t he?)  

“I,” Barry tries, stomach sinking. “I’m sorry. I’ll–”

“ _Let me guess,”_ Arthur snaps. “ _You’ll try to stop?_   _You said that five minutes ago, Kid. And five minutes before that. I know being an annoying pain in the ass is your defining character trait, but could you please fucking turn it off for a while?"_

“ _Aquaman,_ ” Diana interjects, voice stern. Barry raises a shaking hand to the side of his head, palm resting against his cheek and fingers splayed over his mask at his ear. His heart pounds. “ _That’s enough._ ”

 _“Stop protecting him,”_ Arthur fires back. “ _I’m not the type to give a shit about this kind of thing, but you and I both know that he needs to take this more seriously._ ”

 _"Aquaman,"_ Diana warns again. Arthur's voice is sharp when he responds.

" _Tell me I'm wrong,"_ he challenges.  _"Tell me that you haven't been thinking about it this whole time, and I'll drop it."_

Diana struggles for a reply. Her radio silence is an answer in itself. 

“I’m,” Barry cuts in, swallowing back bile. His voice is thin and reedy. Pathetic. “I’m taking this seriously. I – I _promise,_ I’m taking this seriously.”

" _T_ _hen fucking act like it,”_ Arthur barks.

Then, three things happen at once.

Heat washes over Barry like a tidal wave, seeps into his ligaments, swallows his ribcage. Diana says something through the comm – another reprimand for Arthur, probably, or maybe some encouragement for Barry that he doesn’t deserve.

And the world seems to groan and tilt as the first electromagnetic pulse goes off.

\---

In all, it only takes about forty minutes to contain the disaster. According to Bruce, the fault ultimately lies with nobody but himself; one of the security guards was apparently involved in the syndicate, and Bruce had never noticed, which was “a massive oversight” on his part. 

You know. Despite the fact that he had no reason to suspect the security guard in the first place. Which Diana has pointed out several times, to no avail.

Regardless, the main weapon is secured, a hefty chunk of the syndicate is captured, and at the end of it all, Barry is still standing, and he has thrown up exactly zero times even though he’s wanted and needed to throw up many. So. A net win, really.

Right now, though. Right now, it kind of feels like Barry’s losing.

\---

Diana is, unsurprisingly, the one to suggest meeting up at the Hall to debrief and grab a bite to eat. Bruce agrees, because Bruce always agrees, and when he offers to cater, Barry knows that it’s for his benefit. (Barry’s never been one to turn down free food. Bruce knows this, and Barry knows that Bruce knows this.)

But Barry physically feels like he’s decaying. It takes every last bit of effort to keep his arms from trembling at his sides, his tongue sits dry and heavy in his mouth, and even though he’s burning alive, he isn’t sweating at all, which.

Barry’s no doctor, but he’s guessing that’s a bad sign.

In all, Barry partly wants to cry, partly wants to vomit, and entirely wants to curl up in a ball inside of the local YMCA showers and douse himself with lukewarm water until he feels like a human again. He doesn’t want to eat, and he doesn’t want to socialize, and he really doesn’t want to talk about the mission. Not right now.

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

“You okay, Kid?” Arthur asks when Barry takes too long to respond. He places a hand on Barry’s shoulder, and it isn’t an apology, but it’s the closest that Arthur will get. Because Barry knows Arthur, at least to some degree. Knows how Arthur always throws his head back a bit when he laughs, and how he grins, sharp and victorious, every time he manages to surprise Bruce. Knows that he isn’t going to apologize for saying something that he meant, and he meant what he said earlier. All of it.

And Barry also knows that he isn’t okay. He's a far bit away from okay, actually. Passed okay a few hundred miles ago and just ran out of gas in the middle of the desert. But, when he thinks about admitting it, Arthur’s words keep coming back to him.

_“He needs to take this more seriously.”_

And it sucks, because Barry knew he talked too much. And he knew that he was annoying. And he knew that Arthur didn’t really like him, but.

But…

Barry cares about this team. Would and will die for them, probably, which. Barry’s afraid of basically everything, so the offer to lie down his life for a group of people he’s known for roughly five months is a pretty big deal in his books. And he doesn’t take too many things seriously, but this League? It’s one of them. #2 on his list of priorities, only second to freeing his father from prison.

But after all this time, his teammates still don’t know. They still don’t understand him at all, and it’s his own fault, because he’s obnoxious, and he’s immature, and he doesn’t know how to just shut his mouth and act like a normal human being. Doesn’t know how to be someone that deserves to be on the Justice League.

(He doesn’t know how to be someone that deserves to be happy.)

So he gently shrugs off Arthur’s hand. Smiles even though it makes his jaw ache.

“I’m fine,” Barry says, trying and failing to completely keep the slur out of his words. “But I think I’m gonna head home. Take a nap or something. If, uhh. If that’s cool with you guys?”

Diana shoots a discrete look Arthur’s way. Arthur openly stares back, unflinching. Bruce wisely keeps out of it and nods his assent instead, voice betraying no emotion as he gives Barry permission to leave.

Then, with a single, agonizing breath, Barry’s gone.

\---

Barry barely makes it into the doorway of his warehouse-of-the-week before he’s crashing, sinking down onto the floor and curling up on the cool cement. His skin is too hot, too tight, too much. His stomach lurches and cramps, and he claws at it desperately, choking back a mouthful of saliva. His heart pounds in his ears, a steady and terrible beat, and he hates this. He hates this. He’s tired, and he’s in pain, and he misses the team terribly.

But he’s done this before, and he’ll do it again, and he’ll keep doing it as many times as it takes. He’ll keep patching himself up, putting himself back together, because he may be an inconvenience to his teammates every moment he spends with the Justice League, but he refuses to be an inconvenience to them now, after everything is said and done.

And he doesn’t want to be alone, but he hasn’t exactly earned anything else, has he?  

He needs to take things seriously. From now on, he's going to take things seriously.

 

(Barry will prove himself to them. He’ll prove himself to the team if it’s the last thing he does.)

(Really, though. At this rate, maybe it will be.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> barry: [makes a small and irrelevant mistake that does no harm to anyone]  
> barry's brain, banging together pots and pans: YOU FUCKED UP! YOU FUCKED UP! YOU FUCKED UP!

**Author's Note:**

> me @ myself: work on Rigor Samsa! finish what you've started, you gremlin!  
> also me @ myself: post another fic where u beat up the fast boy, and make it a multi-chapter because u have no self control. it'll be great.
> 
> also it feels so bad and wrong not adding a little lighthearted convo at the end of the chapter, but i gotta save that for the very long ending chapter that i know is inevitably going to occur (RIP)


End file.
